


No Skirt, No Service

by redredribbons



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Lingerie, M/M, Panty Kink, Size Kink, Skirts, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 22:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redredribbons/pseuds/redredribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Swerve has an interesting new theme night at the bar involving some very unusual garments. Cyclonus is not amused… until he find out that Tailgate is participating. Why does everyone on the Lost Light have skirts all of a sudden? Well, why not? ;D</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Skirt, No Service

Cyclonus narrowed his optics as he strolled into Swerve’s bar. Tailgate was having an evening out with Rewind (watching movies, he assumed), so the jet intended to fritter away the night nursing a drink in a quiet corner. 

Quiet corner. That was wishful thinking. The bar was absolute chaos tonight; it seemed that the entire crew was all here, all at once, and even more raucous than usual. Most disturbingly of all, however, were the bizarre garments each patron wore. Every mech had varying shapes, sizes and colors of cloth wrapped around their hips, and many of them sashayed around extravagantly, complimenting and fawning over one another. Ultra Magnus was the only one who seemed anything less than wildly enthusiastic about this, but even he was wearing an amazingly short and tight strip of pink fabric around his waist. 

Maybe Cyclonus would take his drink elsewhere. Trying not to look around too much, he made a beeline for the counter and ordered a cube of strongest high grade. 

“No can do, Cyclonus!” an overly chipper Swerve chortled back, “Tonight’s a theme night. No skirt, no service!”

He pointed one chubby finger to a banner above the bar proclaiming that exact statement. 

“You can’t be serious,” Cyclonus deadpanned, staring at the sloppily painted banner in disbelief, “Theme night. Skirts.”

“Never been more serious in my life! On a theme night that everyone has to follow the theme or it doesn’t work. Just look around! Even Rung over there’s got his frilly get-up, who would’ve thought! So I’m sure you can rustle something up--” Swerve chattered on. Cyclonus grunted and turned away, miserable in the irony that this “theme night” debacle had only further increased his longing for high-grade. Resolved to spending the evening alone in his hab suite, Cyclonus was nearly out the door when he felt an unpleasantly familiar crescent-shaped claw jab him in the side. 

“Heeeey buddy, looks like you missed the memo about tonight’s dress code,” Whirl sidled out of the shadows, clearly on his way in. Cyclonus’ gawked at the spectacle he made: an outrageously gaudy mess of petticoats overlaid with some sort of cheap-looking shiny material in a hodgepodge of poorly-matched colors.

“Speechless, eh? Just the reaction I was going for,” Whirl cackled. He carefully took the edges of the skirt in his claws and swished it from side to side. Cyclonus shook his helm, honestly starting to wonder if his processor was malfunctioning, and pushed past Whirl. 

“Aww, don’t be like that! I have an extra one! It’s kind of frumpy and dull, but I think it’ll suit you perfectly,” Whirl said. 

Cyclonus’s fists clenched as he replied curtly, “I’ll be spending the evening in my hab suite.”

“All aloooone?” Whirl wheedled him, “Tailgate came in earlier, you know.”

The jet froze in his tracks. He knew Tailgate would be spending the evening with Rewind, but had no idea that those plans would lead him here. Did Tailgate even own a skirt? How had Cyclonus never noticed...? Against his better judgment, Cyclonus’s helm pivoted back toward the lively scene in the bar. That’s when he saw it: at one of the far tables, near the wall, a glimpse of sky blue and creamy white. Tailgate was leaning forward across the table, engrossed in conversation. The view was obstructed, so Cyclonus couldn’t make out much more than the minibot’s back... and a delicate drape of tan pleats barely covering his primly crossed thighs. 

“Fine,” Cyclonus ground out, not looking at Whirl, “I’ll take the ‘frumpy’ one.”

___________

On his way back to the bar, now properly dressed, Cyclonus couldn’t believe he’d let Whirl talk him into this. While the garment’s fabric wasn’t uncomfortable, it wrapped rather snugly around the full length of his legs, all the way down to his ankles, which restricted his strides in an annoying way. At least it was a plain charcoal gray, instead of another tacky monstrosity like Whirl wore. 

Cyclonus was not a mech who cared much for the opinions of others, but found himself uncharacteristically self-conscious upon re-entering the bar. This theme was ridiculous. This “skirt” was ridiculous. He looked ridiculous while wearing it. Thankfully the rest of the crew was already a few cubes in, and no one paid him any attention. 

“High-grade. Now,” he snapped across the counter. 

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? I mean, that’s kind of... dour for a party, don’t you think? But hey, a skirt’s a skirt!” Swerve said. Then, to Cyclonus’s relief, he slid a cube over and skipped off to other duties, leaving the jet alone. Cyclonus picked his way through the crowded bar, eyeing a table in the corner that would give him a clear view of Tailgate. He did want to talk to the minibot-- but not yet. Tailgate still got nervous and stutter-y around Cyclonus sometimes and, as adorable as that was, there was something enchanting about watching him so relaxed and casual. Cyclonus took a circuitous path to the table to avoid being noticed by Tailgate, and sat down to sip his cube. 

Now that he was here, he took the opportunity to observe the full surreality of his surroundings. Rodimus’s skirt was made out of long, thin strands of some dried organic matter, and Rung was indeed covered from head to toe in lace, frills and pink bows. Rewind appeared to be wearing a similar outfit to Tailgate, but different colors; his skirt was dark blue and he had red scarf of some sort around his neck. Tailgate’s skirt was also shorter. Much shorter. With his legs crossed like that, it seemed to invite Cyclonus’s optic along the curve of one thigh. From here he had a better view of the sheer fabric on Tailgate’s legs; it appeared to stop part way up his thigh, ending in a delicate ring of lace just barely visible beneath the skirt’s hem. And there appeared to be just a hint of another strap connected to that lace, which quickly disappeared under the skirt as well. What on Cybertron...? Cyclonus was fascinated to the point of confusion, but couldn’t look away. Tailgate shifted unconsciously in his chair and, to Cyclonus’s consternation, tugged the edges of his skirt down further, hiding the lace. Not a breem ago Cyclonus had found this entire concept absurd and humiliating, yet here he was unable to tear his optics away from Tailgate’s sweet little outfit. 

Abruptly Tailgate and Rewind stopped talking. Tailgate started to turn toward him. Cyclonus sat up ramrod straight and swiveled in his chair so fast he nearly spilled his drink. However, he kept the minibots in the corner of his optic; enough where he could still observe their movements, but hopefully subtle enough that they didn’t catch him staring. It appeared to have worked-- Tailgate turned back toward Rewind and the two leaned in across the table, speaking in hushed voices interspersed with giggles. Cautiously, Cyclonus rotated back around to watch more directly. It appeared he hadn’t been caught after all. A few more minutes of their conversation transpired, and then Tailgate’s napkin somehow ended up fluttering to the floor. The small bot bent down from his chair to retrieve it. Cyclonus’s lips parted in pleased surprise as Tailgate’s short skirt hiked up further, offering him a full view of those curvy, stocking-clad thighs. And if Cyclonus wasn’t mistaken, there was a yet another small, sheer piece of fabric between Tailgate’s legs, covering his interface panel. But then Tailgate was pulling himself upright, napkin in hand, and the skirt tumbled back down. Tailgate wiggled in his seat as he re-situated himself, and Cyclonus realized he was leaning forward, claws digging into the edge of his table. Though he didn’t understand the purpose of what he had just witnessed, the jet was overcome with an urge to see more. The lace clung delicately to Tailgate’s thighs, and the straps leading up beneath the skirt were a teasing invitation. Then there was the most mysterious piece of all: the fabric Cyclonus had just barely glimpsed between the minibot’s legs. The jet endeavored to look elsewhere, vaguely unsettled by his inexplicable attraction to the flimsy fabrics that wrapped up Tailgate’s petite, enticing frame like a perfect little present waiting to be opened and savored. 

Now Tailgate was pushing his chair back, standing up. Was he leaving? What an unexpectedly disappointing thought, as Cyclonus found himself very much invested in discovering as much as he could about the mysteries of Tailgate’s attire. Fortunately, however, Tailgate was making his way back to the bar instead of the exit. He hopped up on the little stair-step built for minibots and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the countertop. Cyclonus’s optics widened as, once more, Tailgate’s skirt rode up higher and higher. As if in slow motion, inch by inch, the backs of Tailgate’s thighs were unveiled. There was that lace, now in full view, and another set of straps tracing perfectly up over the lower curve of his aft. And finally, a full view of the juncture between his thighs. Black fabric stretched tightly over the armor plates there, and was sheer enough that Cyclonus could still discern some light blue underneath. A low rumble echoed deep in Cyclonus’s chest as he drank in the provocative pose: Tailgate’s back arched just so and his perky aft was lifted high in the air. As much as all that fabric entranced him, it also frustrated him. He suddenly wished the bar was empty so he could explore to his spark’s content with his claws. With his mouth. 

The display was over all too soon. Tailgate straightened up, hopped down from the step, and sauntered back to his waiting friend, two cubes of high-grade in hand. Cyclonus hissed out a long exhalation. His thighs were pressed tightly together. Until now he hadn’t noticed how sharply his core temperature had increased. Tailgate had an attractive frame, and Cyclonus always appreciated it. Yet there was something about these strange cloth coverings that ignited a fierce burn of arousal inside him. He couldn’t banish thoughts of pushing those shapely white thighs apart, teasing the edges of the lace, pushing the skirt up out of the way... The jet bit his lip to stifle a quiet groan. He should leave now. He really should. He’d barely touched his own drink, and all he had accomplished by being here was near-painful sexual frustration. High-grade forgotten, he angrily pushed his chair back from the table, fully intending to storm out of the bar-- previous self-consciousness about his own attire forgotten. 

“Oh hi Cyclonus! Didn’t see you come in!” 

The jet froze as Tailgate bounced up to his table, looking chipper and perhaps a bit too innocent. His visor gave a friendly, soft glow and he clasped his small hands neatly in front of his hips. 

“Tailgate,” Cyclonus choked out with a curt nod. 

The minibot looked him up and down and said, “I didn’t know you had a skirt too! I guess it never really seemed like your cup of energon? I mean, not that it looks bad on you or anything! It’s very nice!

“It’s not mine,” Cyclonus said, trying and failing to not be distracted by the way Tailgate had begun to lean forward and sway his hips slightly, causing the pleats of his skirt to rustle back and forth. 

“Oh. Well, you should get one too! Dressing up is fun, don’t you think?” Tailgate giggled. 

“I don’t see any practical purpose for such garments,” Cyclonus said absently. 

“I guess they don’t really have one. They’re just for fun occasions, like tonight. Do you like mine?” Tailgate said. He held the edges of his skirt outward and curtsied. The pose offered another tantalizing peek at the lace and straps. 

“We should go,” Cyclonus growled. 

“Why’s that?” Tailgate asked sweetly, “We haven’t even been here that long.”

Cyclonus dropped to one knee before minibot, red optics blazing directly into the blue expanse of his visor. “We are leaving. Now.”

Tailgate squeaked as Cyclonus grabbed his arm and began forcefully steering him out of the bar. He gave a hurried wave back over his shoulder to Rewind who, unbeknownst to Cyclonus, gave him an answering thumbs-up. The jet cycled deep vents of air to maintain control. He needed Tailgate in his berth, this very second, but couldn’t stand the idea of making a scene either. The walk to the exit felt eternal. He thought he saw Whirl and a few others staring and giggling, but couldn’t even be bothered to confront them about it. 

As soon as they were a safe distance down the hall, Cyclonus effortlessly scooped up Tailgate and tossed him over his shoulder. 

“Eeee! Cyclonus! I can walk, you know!” the minibot squealed.

“Not fast enough,” Cyclonus growled. He rested one hand right on the curve of Tailgate’s rump as he practically ran the rest of the way to their hab suite. 

The door had barely hissed shut behind them when Cyclonus dumped Tailgate unceremoniously onto his berth. His skirt ended up over his head in the process, and he hastily adjusted it back into place.

Peering up at his room mate, Tailgate trembled to the core at the heated gaze that greeted him. Cyclonus was looking at him like a starving mech at an energon feast, like a predator closing in his prey of choice after finally separating it from the safety of the herd. Tailgate had only seen that look a few times before, and he knew what it portended. He squirmed invitingly on the berth, both shocked and delighted at the effect his outfit seemed to be having on the stoic, controlled jet. He made a mental note to suggest more theme nights to Swerve in the future. 

“Uhh... Cyclonus?” Tailgate asked. He could see the jet’s frame vibrating, feel the heat rolling off of him in waves. A moment of tension dragged out between them, a string stretched too far. 

And then it snapped. 

Cyclonus pounced on Tailgate, pinning him to the berth and burying his faceplates in the crook of the minibot’s neck. He inhaled deeply, open-mouthed, before dragging his fangs across delicate neck cabling. Tailgate whimpered as the stinging contact melted to smooth heat when Cyclonus began to tongue his way up along his jawline. 

“What in the Pit do you think you’re doing?” Cyclonus snarled, directly into Tailgate’s audio.

“I, uhh-- what?” Tailgate said, back arching off the berth as he tried unsuccessfully to pull Cyclonus on top of him, yearning to feel that hot, heavy frame bearing down on him. 

“This...” Cyclonus panted, dragging his claws down Tailgate’s frame until they tangled in the fabric of his skirt. 

“I-it’s just theme night...” Tailgate trailed off into a moan as Cyclonus’s touch dipped lower, now creeping up under the hem of the skirt.

“You like pretending you’re innocent, don’t you?” Cyclonus said, toying with the lace at the top of one stocking.

“Wh-whatever do you mean?” Tailgate stammered, bucking his hips up into Cyclonus’s touch. 

“Tease,” came the rumbled response. Tailgate’s thighs were roughly pushed apart, and purple claws followed the garters upward, rubbing the soft fabric between thumb and forefinger. “You are a naughty tease.”

Tailgate’s reply dissolved into a gasp as Cyclonus slipped a claw into the side of his panties. His hands balled into the sheets and his head fell back at that heated touch across his interface panel. The panel immediately snapped open, and Cyclonus groaned as his claw sank into warm, soft wetness. 

“You planned this all along, didn’t you, you little minx,” Cyclonus purred, pleasantly surprised at how wet Tailgate was already.

“Wha--? I mean I-- ohhh Cyclonus--!” the minibot wailed, voice rising in pitch, as that claw slid between the outer folds of his valve. Tailgate rocked his hips forward, trying in vain to get Cyclonus inside him. This only prompted the jet to withdraw his finger and grin wickedly at the writhing minibot in his berth. 

“You want to tease, Tailgate?” Cyclonus said dangerously, “Very well then.”

Holding optic contact with Tailgate, the purple mech languidly licked his claw clean before scooting further back on the berth. He hunkered down over the minibot’s frame and grabbed one curvy thigh in each hand. Pushing Tailgate’s legs up and further apart, he watched hungrily as the skirt fell back and bunched up around his waist, leaving an unobstructed view of his panties and the delicious prize beneath. Cyclonus pulled Tailgate’s hips up closer to his face as he leaned down until his faceplates were buried between his thighs. Again he inhaled sharply, savoring the scent of Tailgate’s arousal. Then he drew back slightly to nuzzle the soft lace at the top of a stocking. He flicked his tongue underneath a garter strap before nipping the tender plating it rested on. Tailgate yelped and squirmed. Smirking, Cyclonus continued his torturously slow path upward, biting just hard enough to a trail of shallow dents up Tailgate’s inner thigh. Finally, his lips hovered just above the minibot’s dripping valve. His panties were noticeably wet by now. As appetizing as they looked, Cyclonus restrained himself. He hesitated there, letting his hot breath tickle across the over-sensitized area until Tailgate whined pitifully.

“Cyclonuuus! C’mon...”

Cyclonus gave a soft, breathy laugh and pulled away, this time licking up Tailgate’s other thigh. He moved at an agonizingly slow pace, tasting every rivet and seam in the minibot’s armor, pausing now and then to toy with the garter strap. Tailgate’s ventilations were rapid and desperate by now, borderline sobs. 

“And here I thought...” Cyclonus said as he kissed the soaked fabric covering Tailgate’s valve, “...you liked teasing.”

“I do I do it’s just that I want you so much Cyclonus and you’re right there and can you please just--!” Tailgate babbled incoherently, legs twitching and kicking in Cyclonus’s grasp. Delighted as always with his partner’s expressiveness, Cyclonus took a small amount of pity on Tailgate. He extended his tongue for a long, slow lick up Tailgate’s valve. The panties felt odd and soft against his tongue, but he loved the way they sponged up lubricant and clung so perfectly to every curve and fold. Reaching the anterior sensor node, Cyclonus sucked lightly, tasting all the lubricant soaked into the sheer panties. Tailgate thrashed under him, exquisitely needy, and attempted to pull the undergarment off. How he longed to feel Cyclonus’s skilled mouth directly on his plating.

Cyclonus appeared to acquiesce; he hooked a claw into the crotch of the panties and tugged them aside. Frustrated beyond belief, Tailgate grabbed Cyclonus’s horn and attempted to shove his head in closer. Cyclonus easily resisted, however, and just barely brushed the very tip of his tongue around the tight valve opening. He nimbly traced around it before pushing inside. He extended his tongue fully, diving in and tasting-- but only for one brief instant.

“Primus Cyclonus, please please please...!” Tailgate chanted breathlessly. His valve was throbbing with need, almost painful, desperate to be filled. But Cyclonus ignored his partner for the time being, focusing instead on his own spike. He extended it, and hissed at the unexpected pleasure of the soft fabric of his own skirt tickling across its sensors. Curious, he rubbed the heel of his palm down the length and groaned through clenched teeth. As interesting a novelty as the sensation was, the skirt was decidedly in the way. Hands shaking with need, Cyclonus fumbled with the small clasp unsuccessfully. He snarled in frustration and gave a sharp tug. The fabric parted easily, and he began kicking the long skirt off in a decidedly ungraceful fashion as it kept catching on the edges of his armor plates. Tailgate pressed both hands over his faceplates to stifle a giggle. 

Finally the conquered skirt drifted to the floor, though decidedly worse for the wear. Maybe Whirl would be upset about it, but Cyclonus hardly cared. Spike firmly in hand, Cyclonus allowed himself to simply drink in the spectacle in his berth. Tailgate still had his knees pulled up and his thighs parted, skirt all disheveled and flopped up over this abdomen. The jet stroked himself, mesmerized by the way lubricant had completely saturated Tailgate’s panties and dribbled out to make a small pool on the berth below him. Primus, he could come from the sight alone... He pressed his thumb into the slit at the tip of his spike, moaning loudly at the thought of painting thick streaks of transfluid all over Tailgate’s pretty stockings and panties. Tailgate clearly had other ideas, though, as he was sitting up, reaching for Cyclonus’s long, thick spike. Cyclonus roughly pushed him back down, having no intention of letting the naughty minibot take what he wanted. 

“Don’t. Move,” Cyclonus snarled, and Tailgate squeaked at his intensity. Bracing himself with one hand above Tailgate’s helm, Cyclonus ground the length of his spike against Tailgate’s waiting valve. 

“Cyclonus, please... Inside...” Tailgate panted. Cyclonus’s own mounting need made him more generous, and once more he tugged the panties’ crotch to the side, allowing the engorged tip of his spike to rub all over that hungry valve. He hesitated; normally he took more time to stretch and prepare Tailgate. But the minibot was so desperate, grinding against his spike, trying to impale himself.

“Primus, baby, put it in, I can take it... love the way you stretch and fill me up...” Tailgate begged shamelessly. That was the last straw. He held Tailgate’s hips steady with one hand, and angled his spike with the other. Tailgate reached down and spread himself, allowing the tip to slide inside. Both mechs froze at that moment, liquid fire blazing through their systems. Impossible, squeezing tightness, an exquisite stretch, ridged hardness raking over every electrified sensor... Cyclonus slid in deeper, little by little, until his hips rested against Tailgate’s aft. He pulled the minibot’s ankles up to rest against his shoulders. Bracing his hands on either side of that small white helm, Tailgate was nearly folded in half and spread open wide. Neither allowed much time to adjust; Tailgate was already rocking his hips, hunting for the friction and pressure he so desperately sought. Cyclonus was all too happy to oblige him, and immediately set a fast, rough pace. The edge of Tailgate’s panties brushed against the side of spike with every thrust, a sensation Cyclonus found surprisingly erotic. He tilted his head downward to admire the view: his own thick, purple shaft plunging in and out of Tailgate’s light blue hips, the panties glistening with fluids, stockings accentuating every curve of the thighs hugging his shoulders. He growled the minibot’s name and leaned forward even further, wanting to be as deep inside Tailgate as physically possible. Overload was creeping up fast; he’d never been able to last long inside Tailgate. The size difference made the tightness overwhelming, and Tailgate was always incredibly wet and enthusiastic for him. This time the prolonged teasing had left him exceptionally pent up. 

Tailgate, it seemed, was faring no better. Cyclonus’s spike raked over all of his internal sensor nodes, and its tip slammed ruthlessly into the most deeply buried ones that his own hands could never reach. His valve walls were already quivering in the precursor of overload, and he urged Cyclonus on, “That’s it baby, that’s it, I’m so close, give it to me, just a little faster...!”

The jet obeyed without conscious thought, frame already acting on instinct, driving hard to completion. Tailgate buried his hands in the seams of Cyclonus’s chest plating, clinging to the jet, yearning for even more physical contact. One final, hard thrust and the tight curl of pleasure inside him blossomed into overload and he screamed his partner’s name. His tiny frame jerked and spasmed as lubricant gushed out of his valve, splattering Cyclonus’s hips and his own thighs. Valve clenching so tight it approached the point of pain, the minibot continued to roll his hips into Cyclonus’s increasingly erratic thrusts, eagerly anticipating the jet’s overload. Tailgate got what he wanted moments later, as Cyclonus’s back arched, claws tearing into the berth. He could feel that huge spike throbbing and pulsing inside him as it emptied long spurts of fluid deep into his valve. Cyclonus’s groans sounded almost pained, and the intensity of it made his optics flare so bright they were nearly white in color. Fluid quickly seeped back out of Tailgate’s overstuffed valve and further soiled his panties. Cyclonus slumped strutlessly forward, barely managing to catch himself on trembling forearms. He rested his helm next to Tailgate’s and cycled air frantically in an effort to cool his dangerously hot frame. The minibot nuzzled the side of his helm affectionately, and slid his legs down to drape over Cyclonus’s waist instead. He felt so wonderfully full and ripe and satisfied-- warmth glowed deep within him and seemed to spread outward, making the entire world look a little softer. 

“Jeez, I never knew you’d be so enthusiastic about theme night,” Tailgate giggled. 

Cyclonus gave his aft a playful pinch and whispered, “It’s not theme night I’m enthusiastic about.”

Tailgate made a shrill sound of happiness and hugged Cyclonus tighter. “I, uh, have more you know...”

“More what...?” Cyclonus asked fuzzily, processor still not functioning at full capacity. 

“Outfits... You know... pantiesandstuff...” Tailgate mumbled, inexplicably embarrassed about it. 

“Is that what they’re called?” Cyclonus mused, “Then I insist you show me all of them.”

“With pleasure!” Tailgate chirped, beaming with happiness, “Not tonight though. Sleepy.”

“And messy,” Cyclonus said, unsticking his hips from Tailgate’s. But the minibot was already dozing; perhaps the wash racks could wait. 

He gather the tiny mech in his arms and planted a gentle kiss on top of his helm. “Show me everything.”


End file.
